Work Sucks
by Lea Woods
Summary: Working at the ministry sucks, and Percy can't wait to tell the world...one bartender at a time. Everybody knows when a good song comes on, you've gotta dance. Even Percy, much to Oliver's dismay...(play that funky music, white boy...)


Title: Work Sucks (Play that funky music)

Author: Lea ( ) with assistance from Dest ( )

Status: 1/1. This is a one shot that sort of begs for a sequel, but we'll see.

Category: Humor

Spoilers: None. Not even conceivable.

Disclaimer: I don't own the lovelies, but I do own the plot...what little of it there it. Okay, I don't own the song either—KC and the Sunshine band do. Everything else (with the exception of the nameless bartender, the bar-that-isn't-a-club, and the mysterious man) is copyright J.K. Rowling and her publishers, etc, etc, etc...

Rating: PG-13 (for use of alcohol (lots of it) and some language)

Summary: Work sucks and Percy can't wait to tell the world all about it. In the meantime, however, play that funky music white boy…

Feedback: Always welcome.

Notes: Please do not hold the quality of this piece against me. I really can write better than this. However, seeing as I just got my internet back after almost a year's hiatus, I felt I should celebrate with something. Thus, "Work sucks". I blame the music. I really do. And my damned little sister, but that's another can of worms. Enjoy. Lea

In a word, work sucked. There was really no other way to put it. Okay. Maybe it was two words. Percy really couldn't have cared less. It was simple. His job sucked. He spent umpteen hours, sometimes six days a week, kissing other people's asses. This might not sound like such a bad profession.

Except, he had never had much of an interest in becoming a gigolo. If he suddenly decided he liked kissing asses every day, he'd switch jobs. Not that it much mattered, as he only spent about three hours a day accomplishing tasks of his own. The rest of his day, fell into the following categories.

One. Phone calls. One could assume that if one worked for the ministry of magic, telephones would be something of an unnecessary evil. However, one would not believe the sheer amount of time Percy spent making and receiving phone calls from various coworkers' relatives. It was amusing, in a sick, horror movie kind of way.

Two. Coffee. Black. Cream. Sugar. Sugar and cream. Latte. Espresso. Mocha. Double mocha latte, with three shots of espresso. It was amazing how many damned words people had invented for a single beverage. After all, weren't they British? Weren't they supposed to be drinking TEA? No. Oddly enough, Percy spent more time than he cared to think about running between the coffee shop down the street and the ministry in pursuit of caffeine to keep his superior's head from flying off. Perky. Percy shuddered. Fudge was frightening when he was "perky".

Three. Coworkers. They all though he had slept up the corporate ladder, which Percy personally found the most thing he'd heard all year, especially as most were under the impression that he was still a virgin in every sense of the word. He wasn't sure how that peculiarity worked out, but in the eyes of fellow ministry employees, obviously there many things he simply didn't get.

Four. His boss. Working for the minister was supposed to be the most honorable profession any wizard could hope to have. Percy had say, this preconception was complete and total bullshit. Working for Cornelius Fudge was much like babysitting. The little shit sits in his own little fairyland, whining about how _hard_ his life was, while Percy slaved away, trying to keep the world as they knew it intact.

There was more, but it all fell into subcategories of the four previously mentioned. Percy muttered to himself as he wandered through Diagon Alley. He was looking for a place he had overheard a couple of his coworkers raving about. Come to think of it, last time he'd owled Oliver, the Scot had said nothing but good things about the place.

Percy rolled his eyes. His former roommate had also wanted to know why Percy didn't ever go out. Not that he ever had, but it wasn't as though he still lived with his parents. He was a young adult. He was supposed to be living it up.

Percy thought most people of his generation were mad. He didn't see the point in going out and getting plastered then having sex with a complete stranger in a corner somewhere. That said, it _was_ a Friday night, and he had nothing better to do. Besides, work sucked.

So, the somewhat lesser Weasley found himself wandering into a packed bar nestled in a corner between shops of a somewhat dubious nature. Inside the bar it was dark, the only light coming from a large mirrored ball suspended above a packed dancefloor, a few strategically placed spotlights of various colors, and the softer, ambient lighting emanating from what Percy could only assume was the bar.

He made his way towards this small beacon, and was pleased to find that indeed, it was the bar, and it was in possession of large quantities of alcohol.

"What can I get you?" The barkeep asked over booming of speakers. "Don't ask for Guinness, there was a bachelor party earlier, and I've been cleaned out."

"Damn," Percy muttered. "All right. Um…something with a large proof then, please? Something not vodka…or gin…how about whiskey? Yes. I'll have a whiskey, please."

"Single or double?" The barkeep asked.

"As much as I can have," Percy shot back. "On the rocks, please."

The barkeep chuckled a little as he went to making the drink. This, admittedly, was not hard, considering what he'd ordered. "Bad day?"

"You have no idea," Percy muttered, accepting the glass and sliding a few coins at the man.

"Tell me about it," the Irish man suggested, pulling out a towel and buffing the bar's already mirror-like surface.

"Why?" Percy asked miserably.

"Well, I've got nothin' better to do. And," he said pointedly. "Apparently neither do you."

"Point taken," Percy conceded. "All right. It's like this…" And he proceeded to tell the man everything about his job. Far more than the poor bartender had bargained for or had ever even dreamed of knowing. Percy seriously doubted the man had wanted to hear any of it. Nevertheless, he pointed out to himself, he had asked. Percy had been obliged to spill his guts out to him.

Four drinks later, Percy finished his story. "Sho," he managed to say. "Work shucks." He cleared his throat. "Sucks."

The bartender shook his head. "Want another drink?"

"Yep. That shounds nishe."

Oliver had entered the little bar shortly after eight that night. Spotting a familiar patch of red hair in the gloom, he had made his way over towards the bar. The bar wasn't really a bar. Okay, it wasn't a club, either. It was just a little place that served copious amounts of alcohol and people—usually very drunk people—spent a lot of time dancing. All right, maybe it was a club.

When he reached the lifeblood of the place—the bar—there was no doubt about it. There was Percy Weasley. Well on his to being completely hammered and having a rather one-sided conversation with the unfortunate barkeep. Oliver stifled the urge to laugh. Taking a seat some feet away, he shook his head when the keep looked at him questioningly (pleadingly, he thought). Someone had to stay sober.

Percy was about to launch into another bitter diatribe about working for the ministry when a familiar beat came over the extremely loud speakers. Bottle to his lips—it seemed the barkeep had hoarded a few pints of Guinness beneath the bar—Percy's head began to bob a little. Seconds later, his foot marked time against the stool. A moment after that, some Good Samaritan had whisked Percy away from the bar and into the exact center of the dancefloor.

Percy stopped and stared at the man who had dragged him there. He blinked a few times, confused. Then shrugged, his entire body beginning to move in time with the music. From the bar, Oliver watched in astonishment. Percy wasn't really going to…was he? A second later, Oliver's worst fears were confirmed. Percy definitely _was_.

"_Play that funky music, white boy!"_

He was really moving now, his arms doing things Oliver had never pictured him doing before. Well, maybe. But those were the sort of dreams he had always tried desperately to forget.

Percy didn't seem to realize what he was doing. Oliver blamed it on the vast quantities of alcohol he had seen him consume. Now his hips were moving, gyrating in a manner patterned, he supposed, after Elvis.

The man who had pulled Percy onto the floor, a very hip looking wizard, looked surprised, but was cheering him on. After all, Percy was still wearing khakis, a white, button-down shirt, and his ministry robes, not to mention the blue tie now hanging limply around his neck.

A circle started form around him. People were chanting the words to the song as Percy danced in the middle of them all, completely oblivious. It was something almost directly out of an eighties movie.

Oliver almost had to look away. What Percy was doing now was just…well, not something that should be done on a dance floor. He didn't know where he had learned that little hip movement, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"_Lay down the boogie and play that funky music till you die!"_

As the final chorus ripped through the club, Percy attempted something no sane man—okay, no _sober_ man with an interest in fathering children—would even consider. Suddenly, he dropped to floor in a forward split, and somehow (miraculously, Oliver thought), Percy immediately pulled himself back to his feet and jumped in the air in a final, triumphant pose. Cheers, screams, catcalls and whistles…all of it echoed around the bar that wasn't really a club between songs.

Grinning ridiculously, Percy came dancing up to the bar as the next song—some rap atrocity—came on. He plopped onto his stool, picking up his beer and taking a long pull. "So like I was saying," he continued as though nothing had happened. "Work sucks."

The barkeep nodded, backing away a little. "So I suppose that's what you're up to tomorrow night as well."

Percy shrugged, then smiled falsely. "Of course. It's Saturday. Naturally I'll be working. Don't you?"

"I work at a bar."

"True," Percy murmured, finishing off the bottle.

"How did you do that last little maneuver?" the bartender asked.

Percy snorted in a very undignified way. "Oh, that. I took some dance classes after Hogwarts. The instructor said I had this thing where my muscles are too long for my frame. Called it "hyper-tactile-mobility syndrome". I call it fucked up." Percy shrugged. "Course, it does mean I can pull shit like that and not get hurt."

Oliver shook his head and stood up as the bartender wandered away. He couldn't take any more of this. "So Percy," he murmured, coming up next to his former classmate. "Where're you headed?"

Percy shrugged. "Dunno. The office maybe. I seem to live there anywa—HEY! Oliver! How're you?"

"Sober," Oliver replied. "Can't say the same about you."

Percy waved hand. "I know. Isn't it great?"

"Yeeeeeah," Oliver replied dubiously. " C'mon. Let's go."

"Go? Where're we going?" Percy asked, even as he got up.

"My flat."

"Oliver," Percy sounded appalled. "Never on the first date."

Oliver looked at him a moment, then shook his head. "No, I'll wait till you're sober. Come on. We'll have the first date some other time."

"Okay," Percy said amiably. He nodded at the barkeep as Oliver all but dragged him outside.

"Perce?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"No more dancing."

A sigh. "All right."

"Thank you."

"Uh-huh." Percy stopped to look up at the night sky. Then he realized that Oliver was quite a ways ahead of him and ran to catch up. "Hey, Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

"I have to tell you something."

Oliver stopped and turned around, quirking an eyebrow. "What?"

"Work sucks."

fine


End file.
